Winter
by Hunnybunny12
Summary: AU based one year after the events of THOR: The Dark World. Jane Foster has been living under the radar ever since London, when Loki is sent to her. Sent FOR her. "Do you trust me, Miss Foster," his voice is a low purr. "Of course not," She answers defiantly, her stomach in twists. "Are you afraid of me, Miss Foster?" he asks more directly, a quiver of a smile on his lips. PLZ R&R!
1. Arrival

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So for those of you that saw the Dark World, just pretend that you didn't see that last scene where Loki is seen on Odin's throne and we'll get along just fine. This story has been stewing in my brain for ages and I'm hoping the muses will cooperate and let me write it. So updating may be hit or miss, but please be patient with me! :)On a much more random note, I use a lot of music or book references in my writing. Reviews are much appreciated, as well as any errors you find (which hopefully there are none).

Unfortunately I do not own these characters, except for any OC's that may pop out somewhere along the way.

* * *

"Lonely winds will call my name"

- Turn into Earth, Yardbirds

* * *

**Unknown, Unknown**

Upon arrival, Loki finds himself steeped darkness.

He's not sure how long it's been. Time seems to be nonexistent here, at least for a little while. Could be milliseconds, hours, days, weeks.

Loki is aware that he cannot feel his body. He knows that he has a body but for the moment he simply exists, as if in a spirit form.

He's stripped of sight, touch, yet oddly enough it's scent that remains. He cannot feel his corporeal body, yet, afloat in some plane he feels the cool scent wash over him, shocking his consciousness with its icy burn. No taste in his mouth (that is if he could feel his mouth), not even a sound to fill his ears. It's not a sweet scent that overwhelms him, although, not an entirely foul scent either. A deep earthy musk of moss and juniper spice fills Loki to the brim, until he can't possible soak up any more. It's a familiar scent, though, he cannot recall where he had encountered it. He grasps at the memory rushing up to him like an angry tide with no avail, as if he's reaching through smoke. Loki is familiar with this feeling, this restlessness, this sorrow.

The second immediate sensation that bubbles to the surface is ache. It's an ache that isn't entirely physical, yet it bears a nearly painful weight where his chest should be (if he could feel his chest). There's the ache where his legs should be; tendons and sinews bent to their maximum, stretched and snapped. An ache in his bones; pure exhaustion overwhelming him. It's a tidal force, wracking every nerve ending, pulsing in his heartbeat, his blood, his brain. Their combined weight don't sit on top of his body, as if to crush him, rather, they weigh beneath him. This dull agony tries to suck him into the depths of the void; filled with shadows he'd rather not explore. There's the ache of hopelessness;

Where he is, there is _no certitude, no peace, no help for pain._

Loki had read that in Midgardian poem, and it's meaning could never be more real for him than it is now. He had known physical pain and was, unfortunately, quite familiar with it. From this he knew that there were different kinds of pain. The pain of a lashing was different from a bone breaking. This pain is something entirely different, a pain that has no remedy. A bone will heal, flesh will heal, yet he knows that this wound somewhere inside him will fester, and gnaw away at him. He's now sure how but he's faintly aware that its very cold, but the cold is something his body has always been familiar with.

_So this is Hell_, He muses, his inward voice garbled as if underwater.

He lies in this timeless realm of nauseating weight, and cacophony of pain (though not entirely physical) for what seems like eons. Loki imagines where his corporeal body may be, growing old and weathered alone in a cold, dank place. In a tomb, perhaps.

_Am I even alive?_ He wonders vaguely. As if it mattered at all.

And for the first time the God of Lies feels very alone, and quite afraid.

It doesn't come back all at once for him. Disjointed from time, it feels like an eternity, lifetimes just to feel the faintest sensation of self once more. He can feel his aura wrapped around a definite form, his form. He feels his weight and gravity again, anchoring him to somewhere. One by one, they begin to come back to him; the blood rushing through his body, breath filing his lungs, head pounding, and the cold temperature encasing his body.

His consciousness, tossed in the chaotic void, slowly creeps back to shore with each rushing wave. What first washes to shore is a buzzing, a fritzing in his ears. It's a buzzing out thought, rapid synapses, controlling his breath, a small twitch his leg and in his fingers. He knows he is alive, and that doesn't affect him as much as it should. Other small things begin to wash back,

He remembers his name, Loki Laufeyson, as if it were the chill of a Jotun blizzard inside his throat. There used to be warmth to his name, especially when spoken from his mother. Her face, golden in aura, materializes. Her laugh, her smile.

He feels her wound as if it were his own, a knife wrenching itself through her skin, through cartilage and bone, collapsing her lung, and piercing her heart. He feels himself drowning in her blood. Blood on his hands, in his eyes, running down his throat in a never, ending stream of regret, regret, regret. He led the monster right to her. He might has well have held the knife himself.

Beyond this, multitudes of memories like small stones on a beach, pile before him. Thousands and thousands. The more painful the memory, the heavier the stone.

Most are heavy.

Each one he hauls away from the tumultuous waves, trying to swallow him back up. It takes years, or so it feels. Decades of piecing himself together, decades of gut wrenching sobs and roars of hatred bubbling from his ragged throat.

As he heaves the last stone onto the beach, finally, there's the feeling of light on his eyelids. He doesn't believe it at first, so he focuses on the dull light penetrating his skin. It's definitely there, a very cold color. A dirtied ivory speckled with aquamarine, made from the light on a cloudy day.

Finally, there is relief, finally there is certainty that he is somewhere, and he is waking up. The buzzing in his ear fades into a hollow groan. Wind blowing through trees? The musk or earth and juniper is still thick in his nose. A forest? Triumphantly, he feels the waves, the tides of pain and ache receding back into the recess of his mind. He feels the thinness of his clothing, a numbing cold on his exposed skin. Snow. He fights the waves back, pushing them harder and harder away from him, back to their pit to where they begrudgingly flee.

His eyes open, only to shut immediately. The white light is blinding, nearly painful to his newborn eyes. With a stuttered breath he peaks through his eyelashes, only to see blurs of white, and a dead brown color. Blinking rapidly, he opens his eyes. The white softens, the dark colors sharpen.

Snow. Snow and trees. Dead trees, His mind chugs. How long had he been just lying in the snow, dormant like an animal in hibernation? His body continues to burn with a deep ache, yet this one blessedly physical. Lying on his side, the cold ground beneath his temple numbs his skull. He extends his limbs, stretching the pain from his body. The wind howls through the trees and chills him to the core. Loki knows that if he lied here anymore, there's the risk of hypothermia. He has to move, to find warmth, maybe civilization.

He rolls onto his back, groaning as he does. Groaning, shivering, and laboring on his chilled breath.

Before he can move anymore, a twig snaps through the chilled silence of the forest, followed by a heartbroken gasp. He had adapted the talent of smelling fear. It was a bitter smell, like acrid citrus fruit. A burning smell that invades the nostrils and rings in his brain, very pungent. And as he looks to the source of the gasp, the woman he knows at Jane Foster smells thickly of it. And all he can manage is a blue-lipped sneer on his quivering lips. Then his world is cast in darkness once more.

* * *

YAY! First chapter! Next one will be up soon, promises! The book reference was from my favorite novel 'Fahrenheit 451' by Ray Bradbury. It will probably come up more through the story. Let me know what y'all think! XXOO love you readers!

BT-DUBS I love love love Tom Hiddleston's portrayal of Loki, I'm hoping he'll be in THOR 3 where he is supposed to start the Asgardian apocalypse, and there are rumors of a love interest for him... ooolala cant wait!


	2. Brontide

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hello! This chapter is much longer than the last one (Sorry for that, darlings). I will switch their point of views quite often, probably not in an organized manner either. Hozer's 'Cherry Wine', 'Take Me to Church' and The Boxer Rebellion's 'Doubt' inspired this chapter. Enjoy! Don't forget to review! :)

* * *

**Brontide** (n.): the low rumble of distant thunder

It had been a year. One year since she migrated back to the United States. One year since she'd changed her name, packed everything she could into a pick-up truck and drove North.

Jane Foster lives a silent life. SHIELD had given her enough compensation to buy her own cottage and retire early. It isn't a large cottage by any means, but enough to live on. Two bedroom, one bath, kitchen, dining room, living room.

Jane Foster lives a simple life. It's the daily routine, the bland normality that gives her a sense of control. She needed a bit of control in her life since armored gods and enemies started showing up on her doorstep. Jane wakes before dawn, having not really slept through the night. It's winter now, so as the faint dawning light touches the diamond-like icicles dangling in the treetops, she chops wood. After that, she'll make a bowl of cereal that she won't eat, maybe a cup of coffee (black, spoonful of honey) she may take a sip or two of. When it's particularly chilly she'll throw a few logs into the fire place and sit on the floor, until the flames turn to embers, turn to ash. She was vaguely fascinated by fire, how it consumed everything it touched, turning it black, withering it until its nothing more than dust to blow into the wind. Fire knows no control, it will grow until it's devoured everything in its path, laying waste to all that 'was'. Jane was familiar with the feeling.

One year since she had had any contact from Thor.

_After London…_ She shakes her head of the thought, a twisting pain in her gut.

She spent one week, bathed in nothing but sickly sweet attention, so nauseating she wanted to vomit. After that, Jane spent the a week alone in her apartment, not returning Darcy's (or Richard's for that matter) calls. And Erik didn't call, not that he could/should in his mental state. She didn't sleep either, feeling a restless pain that stretched into the deepest fibers of her bones, an ache in the hollow of her chest.

The second week she received a call from a SHIELD representative, apologizing for not contacting her sooner due to…well according to the representative it was 'classified' but the 9 o'clock news channels buzzed with rumors of a super-soldier on the loose that had terrorized SHIELD headquarters. Jane didn't ask questions. SHIELD notified her that she would be receiving a large sum of money for effectively cutting short the destruction of the realms, so on, so forth.

Thunder roared Friday night of the third week, but Thor had still not returned. Jane began to have nightmares. She couldn't compare them to any nightmare she'd ever experienced, because she would _go_ places. Not her body, in an entirely physical form, but some part of her that lied buried inside her.

Every night when she shut her eyes, Jane moved like a wisp of smoke from her body, across the sky, through the stars. As beautiful as it may sound, these dreams were not hers. It was the Aether's. She'd close her eyes and feel the prickle of it crawling through her veins like a pestilence, gnawing at her from the inside, turning her organs, turning her body into a charred corpse. Every night she'd burn like a ball of flames, hurtling through the sky, destroying, crisping, smiting everything thing she touched. Jane knew in the recesses of her mind that there was no possible way that the Aether could have held on after Svartalfheim. Malekith had drained her of it, pulled every drop from her essence until she were nothing more than an empty sack of flesh. Every night it was the same, her spirit moving across dimensions, across time, reliving every painful moment. Always the journey would end with Jane standing in the decrepit remains of Svartalfheim, a red light descending upon her.

It was the morning of the fourth week, 3 a.m. She woke in a cold sweat, every inch of her body quivering. Then she booked a ticket to New York.

Jane didn't bother packing her research. The stars no longer interested her. In one suitcase and a carry-on, Jane packed the ingredients to a new life. She left Darcy and Ian (the pseudo-intern) an cryptic message under the door. Jane knew they both had a key and knowing that she hadn't contacted them in weeks, they were bound to show up looking for her. It said only what they needed to know, and nothing more.

She landed in New York, a very different New York than she had remembered. She wasn't surprised to find that Tony Stark had pretty much paid for half (if not all) of the city's renovations of destroyed buildings, while simultaneously converting them to clean power. Being connected to all these people, Jane would most certainly come under the public eye.

Jane needed to hide, escape questions that were bound to be ask, ones she'd rather not answer.

Jane Foster needed to disappear. First she went to a bank and emptied her account. Five-hundred thousand in cash was deposited by SHIELD. That coupled with her life savings was more than enough. Jane spent the first day very, very, very, paranoid. After the bank she hit a lawyer's office. Turns out changing your name is a lot easier than you'd think. All she had to do is show her passport, provide the new name, sign the paper, boom. Voila. With that done, she bought some new clothes because one: it was New York for christsakes and she hadn't been there since she was 12 with her dad, and two: nobody was going to recognize her. She filled her suitcase with a new wardrobe, plain (yet expensive) and fit for cold weather. She knew exactly where she was going. The next day she caught a cab to a dealership in the far west suburbs, a shady place but the shadier the better. She couldn't risk people tracking her, especially SHIELD. From now on, everything cash, no paper trails. The truck was used but sturdy; an old grey Ford pickup, 1978.

Next came the drive. She hadn't been to this place since she was a kid with her parents, probably the same year she went to New York. The truck obviously didn't have GPS and she was far too paranoid to use her iphone so maps it was. A lot of time was spent sleeping on the shoulder of the highway, or figuring out she had missed her exit and had to back track miles to get back on the right path. Jane had also never drank so much coffee in her life, not since she had to write her thesis on astronomical theory back in grad-school. She found a new love for teriyaki beef jerkey (which was damn expensive) and red bull, which was probably going to make her need dental work when she got there.

It was about a three day drive, up to the Wisconsin peninsula. During a stop she had got a hold of a realtor and found that the house was fairly cheap, hadn't been fixed since the 70's but it was useable. When Jane drove up the relator was waiting, one look through the small house and Jane signed the papers that day. She paid in cash, of course, which earned a strange look from the relator but nothing more than that. Jane had a newfound appreciation for people who didn't ask questions. Most of the furniture was bought with the house, other was rummaged from various garage sales from the good-folk of Sister Bay. It was a tourist area during the summer, but in the dead of winter, it was blessedly empty. The house itself was a few miles outside of town, set on three acres of forest property all for Jane. The nearest neighbor was probably a fifteen minute drive. Jane liked that, liked the idea of isolation, solitude. She hadn't had much of that since London. It was the first Christmas she spent alone, and Jane Foster couldn't have been more content.

Nobody wondered about the misty-eyed brown haired woman living by herself in the woods. Summer was fast and full of strangers, no one to recognize Jane, although she wasn't named 'Jane Foster' anymore. Autumn was full of gorgeous colors that coaxed Jane into the wilderness every day. Winter became quiet, and the midnight sky became the enemy. All Jane could see was the vast blanket of stars above her, stitched into a obsidian sky, the moon a pearl in the black sea. Jane could swear, she could hear the wind whistling through the trees, whispering her name like a prayer. She swears when she looked into the stars, that she felt them staring back. Right. Into. Her. Soul.

It been a year since then. Jane follows the same routine everyday with content ease. Everything has order, a place to be put, a use. Nothing is extraneous, and what is found to be is burned. Like her old passport, old driver's liscense, old birth certificate, old life.

* * *

**November 2, 4:37 am.**

_Jane Frost is burning, every inch of her essence turning to ash, crumbling away like dust. Her scream expire before they even reach her lips, her throat turning to char. This is a dream Jane Foster has had many times. Only now, there is something different. The air is painted a sickly yellow, dust so think in the air it looks like fog. Through burning eyes, Jane looks to her blackened feet to the obsidian earth beneath her. Svartalfheim. She's not sure why the Aether would make her remember this place. Jane had gotten used to the touch of fire, the sensation of crumbling away into nothingness. Jane Foster feels a very different pain. It starts in her chest, just bellow her sternum, twisting like a weed through her bones, through her heart, slicing, pinching, gnawing its way through her body. The air whispers with agony, coated thick in the metallic scent of blood, Jane hears one voice calling her name over and over._

_'Jane Foster_,'_ it whispers seductively, in a silvery voice she promised she's never forget._

She wakes with a start, her body chilled to the center, her body paralyzed as if in rigor mortis. Her breath is shallow, heart thumping wildly in her chest. Something is very different, and perhaps, very very wrong.

Jane swipes the panic from her mind, telling herself again, as she had many times before, that is was just a dream. Just a dream.

"Just a dream," she murmurs to herself. She feels the fear coil in her belly like a viper, waiting to strike.

Jane rolls her shoulders with a deep sigh, wondering briefly what day it is, almost certain it could be a Sunday. Jane doesn't bother much with dates anymore. Her body is layered thickly in blankets, her furnace not working yet again. She curls her toes, realizing she's shivering. Through crusted eyes and matted hair, Jane rolls and looks out the window. She doesn't bother much with clocks either, the only important times being dawn and dusk. Now, the sun hasn't even begin its journey across the sky, barely touching the horizon. Clouds smear across the sky, combined with the dawning sun, turn the light various shades of pink and mauve. It looks like god got out the finger paints and dragged his fingertips over the sky. Jane smiles to herself, she hadn't thought of god in a long time. Being a scientist, she wasn't exactly a very religious woman. Jane relied on the hard facts, proof, which religion just didn't make the cut. That feeling was amplified by a thousand when Thor first found her in New Mexico, and even more during New York's crisis and London. Nothing was certain anymore. Not to say that things were 100% before, yet the chances of other life being out there being close to zero made life easier. Most ideas were left to the imagination, most complexities only theoretical. Now, the universe turned itself upside down and poured its contents over Jane's head. That's half the reason why she can't bring herself to look at the stars anymore. The other half….

Jane sips her coffee, rolling the bitter taste over her tongue as she watches an early morning fire burning. The embers click and hiss to each other in a strange language, churning smoke from her chimney. She idly notices that she will need more firewood soon, but remains motionless as the sun rises. Jane sits at the center of her living room on the cinnamon colored wood flooring before the fireplace. The house warms around her nearly instantly with the rising sun, pouring its light through her windows. At the center of the room, her body acts as a sundial. Jane notices her shadow growing with each couple of minutes, the embers whispering their strange language to each other, Jane's insides crawling because it's a language she vaguely understands. Popping and hissing and clicking and groaning, crumbling. Crumbling.

The fire dies and Jane retreat upstairs. She fills her clawfoot bathtub and gingerly eases herself into the prickling water, effectively chasing the chill from her insides. She feels something different about today. It's a burning at the back of her neck, a sting in her chest, a panic pacing across her mind. Jane thinks through her strange superstition. It had been a year, a year of complete and blessed silence, and nothing. She'd said what she had to in the note, wiped 'Jane Foster' off the map, and grown into her new identity. Not one person she made eye contact with had ever given her this panic feeling. She knows there's little chance SHIELD or anyone for that matter knew where she was, if they had they would have found her by now. Jane shakes the thoughts from her paranoid brain as she piles on the layers. It had snowed during the night, and she'd have to shovel out her truck to get more food later. She pulls on her favorite forest green jacket, with real fur around the hood, keeping her warm while she picks through the wood pile. The cold burns the tips of her ears, her chest seizing slightly at the frigid air entering her lungs. But the cold is something Jane's gotten used to.

Jane had become a lot stronger since London, really, she's the strongest she's been in her life. The first time Jane had tried to chop wood, she got herself three splinters, blisters, sore back, and only emerged with three small logs for tinder. Since then, Jane's picked up a few tricks. She sheds her coat when she beings to sweat (cold sweat could get you phemonia, and that means a doctor, and that means the possibility of SHIELD finding her so it's a big no no) and picks up the axe with ease, swinging it over her shoulder and cracking through the logs as if she were slicing butter. It doesn't take her very long to get a decent pile to get her through the next couple of days. Pulling on her coat she loads the logs into a cart by her chopping block and hauls the load in through the back door. The minute she closes the door, Jane feels the back of her neck burning again, a striking panic lancing up her spine.

Something is terribly wrong. Jane stomps her feet off at the back door, her eyes scoping the forest through her window. It's the feeling she gets of being watched, sighted, known. Jane shoves the paranoia back into the depths of her mind, resolving not to think about it until she went into town later. If she saw people looking at her strange, then that would be confirmation enough that someone had been asking about her.

Jane puts her coat on, only to shake her head and pull it back on again with her brow knit, ears perked. Ringing? Jane looks around her house for a moments, her eyes touching every surface. Something is different. Jane is certain she hears a ringing in her ears. She zips up her coat and turns to the back door. The ringing grows louder as she touches the handle. Coming from outside? Jane bites her lips, a grimace on her face. If someone had found her, she has had enough of the suspense. Jane would go look for them.

With an angry huff from her lips, Jane swings the door open and slams it shut behind her, pulling up her hood and trudging through the snow. The ringing seems to grow louder as her feet 'crunch, crunch, crunch" closer to the wood line of her property. It's almost blaring as she stands before the forest, her glare hardened, her chest burning. Jane feels a certain kind of anger boil inside her, defiance and riotous. She throws her arms open to the forest, the ringing screaming in her face so loudly and close she could see its spit flying.

"S'That all you got?!" she roars into the trees, the ringing now a pulsing vibration in her brain, "CMON!" she screams, a puff of fog coming from her lips. With a few heaving breaths, Jane realizes the ringing has stopped, and is now fairly certain she's lost her mind and has resorted to screaming at trees. What's next? Eating the face off of some poor animal? Jane drops her arms at her sides, listening to the tree's snicker to each other, their branches groaning and clacking together loudly. Jane looks up to the clouded sky, hearing a small crack as if someone had clapped their hands and the echoe carried itself to Jane's ears.

The sound strikes something deep inside Jane's muscle memory. She had heard that noise before, and it wasn't a coincidence that thunder began to roll immediately after. Jane's heart skips a few beats, the clouds turning dark and swirling. Before Jane can cry or laugh or scream, a beam of pulsing, electrifying light shocks its way into the heart of the forest. The earth shakes beneath Jane's rubber boots and the trees screech and groan. The light, as soon as it touches down like a tornado of aura vanishes back into the sky.

Jane realizes she's not breathing; her heart beat in her ears, her mind scattered like broken glass. Her feet begin moving before her brain can even process what's just happened. _Could it be? No, couldn't possibly be. Maybe? Hopefully_? Jane finds herself running through the dead trees without abandon, skipping over snow drifts, bolting over frozen streams, nearly stumbling, sometimes falling into the snow but Jane doesn't care because all Jane can think about is…

Jane sees a small clearing the Bifrost had made during touchdown. Her heart's in her throat, beating as if it were about to explode, or maybe she'd cough it up if she ran any faster, or maybe it'd just give out there. She comes to the wood line of the clearing, eyes scanning wildly for red. When she finds none, Jane feels the cold catch up with her and she shivers. Jane furrows her brow, her jaw taut as she steps as silent as a mountain cat through the clearing.

Jane recognizes the burn marks of the Bifrost etched into the ground, gobs of half-way melted snow oozing into them. Her ears perk when she hears a fairly audible groan, a very human-sounding groan, so Jane can count out non-human aliens coming to kill her. She hears it again, just behind a rolled over tree trunk. Could he be hurt? Jane feels her instincts kick in as she quickly jumps to action, nearly leaping over the fallen tree and coming upon the landing site. That's just when she stops dead in her tracks, a twig snapping under her boot.

Its bent over, crunched into a ball on the ground and whimpering, its shoulder shaking like a wounded animal coated in silky black and green and gold. Green and gold woven tunic. _Green and gold._

Jane's hand flies to her mouth, a noise escaping her that she wouldn't expect when she's see the god of mischief. His skin is tainted blue, which could be attributed to his Jotun blood, or quite possibly to his blood that was freezing up in his veins and killing him slowly. He turns, his movement slurred and sloppy. As soon as his emerald eyes meet hers, his thin lips curl into a odd grin, as if he wanted to laugh. Before Jane can even react, Loki's eyes roll back into his skull and he exhales a type of tired huff, falling back into the slushy snow with a 'thud'.

Jane can't bring herself to move. Loki died. He died in Svartalfheim. She'd taken his pulse. That creature drove it's blade through his chest. Jane saw it impale just under his sternum, poking out through his back. It would have collapsed his lungs, pierced his heart, having him die in moments. He should be dead. Should be. She saw Loki die in Thor's arms. _In Thor's arms._

Yet, here he was, holding on to life by a thread. Loki is dying. Dying for real this time.


	3. Indifference

**AUHTOR'S NOTE: **Hello lovely readers! I don't have too much to say, except that I've been stalking the THOR 3 fanbase and norse mythology. I have a pretty good idea of where this is going, however, if anybody has any plot suggestions, I'd be happy to read them over! Don't forget to review! :) That is all.

* * *

_"WHY?"_  
_And here is the best answer I can give: Because._  
_Because sometimes, life is damned unfair._  
_Because sometimes, we lose people we love and it hurts deeply. _

_Because sometimes there aren't really answers to our questions except for what we discover, the meaning we assign them over time._  
_Because acceptance is yet another of life's "here's a side of hurt" lessons and it is never truly acceptance unless it has cost us something to arrive there._

_- Libba Bray_

* * *

**November 2, 1:15 pm**

"_I didn't do it for him," Loki's barely whispering now, his body convulsing as he struggles to take in breath. He howls an agonized sputter through grit teeth, clawing Thor's chest and screwing his eyes shut. Jane can only watch as Thor holds his brother, tears pooling in his eyes. Jane has no place in this moment, no place to soothe Loki's passing. She feels almost ashamed watching, like a sick voyeur sticking her nose in places she shouldn't. Jane takes in a stuttered breath, standing far from the scene. She wonders if death among Aesir is more tragic, knowing their lives are supposed to last thousands of years. Jane wonder's briefly how Thor would feel in her time of dying, acknowledging he fact that her life was one breathe for him. _

_Loki's skin darkens, blackened veins stretching across his face like spider webs' tendrils, his turned eyes vacant and misty. _

_Thor is shaking, begging, his breath seizing in his throat. _

"_Brother," he entreats, cradling Loki's head as if he were a child. _

_Loki seems to sigh, a short cut off breath from his pale lips before his body stops shaking. His chest stops moving, stops breathing. Jane blinks, Loki's face a sallow grey and the light gone from his eyes. Loki is dead. _

_Jane isn't sure how long she stands there, barely breathing herself as Thor roars and sobs for Loki. The sounds he makes are unnatural for a person to make, anguished and garbled with animalistic fury. Jane feels tears pinching her eyes, not for Loki, but for Thor. He'd fought so hard for Loki's soul, and now it was lost. _

"_Thor," She murmurs, kneeling at his side with her arms around his shoulders. "I'm so sorry,"_

"_My brother," he hiccups on his breath, embracing the corpse and burying his face in the crook of Loki's neck. Jane looks to the swirling sky, a small yet foreboding 'crack' in the distance of the Bifrost. She snaps her head back to Thor, squeezing her arms around him. _

"_Thor," she says as softly as she can, though her own throat catches on her breath, "We need to go, now," she urges. _

"_I can't leave him here," _

"_We have to go," Jane says again, nudging his shoulders. _

"_I can't…My little brother. Can't leave him alone. He will be afraid," Thor barely chokes the words out. The sickly colored sky 'cracks' loudly with a rolling grow of thunder, lightning flashing across the sky. Jane feels hot tears pinching her cheeks. It was as if the sky was a giant eggshell, splitting open above them in a violent display, pouring its dusty, swirling contents over them._

"_Please, Thor," Jane begs earnestly, the shout of Aesir soldiers in the distance, echoing across the valley. _

"_I can't…" he sobs, shaking inconsolably. _

Jane's heart thuds like a jackrabbit in her chest. Jane can't bring herself to move, her body trembling, hands quivering, her mind reeling. Loki was dead, Jane watched the blood bubble from his lips, his chest seize in desperate gasps for air while Thor could only attempt to ease his passing. His chest barely moves now, and Jane can hear his ragged, shallow breaths.

Jane does the only she knows how; she turns and runs.

Broken sobs burst from her lips in violent eruptions. A hot wetness coats her face, then instantly crystalizes to her skin as she bounds through the snow drifts with leaden feet. Her chest aches, a clawed grasp on anger and grief squeezing her heart. Jane Foster is terrified. She's terrified because this isn't the first enemy to find her since London.

_He's come to finish me off_, Jane's frenzied mind tries to recall what escape she had in order, only to realize she had none. She'd have to pack now, leave in her truck, start up life somewhere else. But who's to say someone else wouldn't come for her? Jane doesn't forget that Loki saved her life on Svartalfheim, but doesn't let it cloud her judgment. He had saved one life out of the thousands he'd killed, she wasn't ready to trust him so easily, not by a long-shot. Whose to say Thor won't stop his brother this time?

It seems like miles to Jane until she reach the garage, clearing through the drifts like a snow leopard, her eyes flat-line of any emotion other than fear. Her body seems to convulse, either from the cold, or from the panic tearing at her insides, her stomach in ropes. _Why would Loki be sent here, to her? Who had sent him?_ But Jane knows the answer to that question. _Why? What would he not come himself_?

Jane feels her lip quivering, _Why?_

Thor had to know that Loki was here, which means he knew _for a year_ that Jane had been living in hiding. Nothing escaped the gaze of Heimdall. Jane's panic is replaced with fury, he knew this whole time, this whole time and did nothing. Said nothing, not even a messenger _for a year_. Jane stops at the doors to her garage, her fingers curling into tight fists at her side. She had to have an answer, _Why?_ And the man in the forest, dying, is the only one who could have the slightest idea. Jane budges the iced-shut door open and plucks the keys to her ATV.

The roar of the engine shatters the placidity of the forest. Jane couldn't hope to drag the man from the clearing to her cottage, it was at least a half mile and by then he would succumb to whatever it is that's killing him. Her eyes sting with the blast of snowflakes and frigid air as she speeds through the forest. Jane Foster's mind explodes under the weight of her panic, her incredulity. She feels tears threatening to pool down her cheeks, her eyes stinging and her throat clenched.

Jane's ATV thunders through the clearing, nearest to Loki's body as the fallen trees would allow.

Jane runs to Loki's catatonic body, forcing her mind to forget what exactly this man is. She kneels and touches her ear to his chest, feeling a soft tap of his heart, a lazy rhythm. With shaking hands she leans close to his mouth, noticing pocks of blood across his pale lips. Jan listens, only hearing the lightest breaths escaping him. She would have to move quickly or he'd die here in the forest, from what exactly Jane struggles to solve.

Without delay, Jane moves to crouch at his head, hooking her arms under his armpits. With clenched teeth and burning legs, Jane hauls Loki's body backward toward the ATV. Jane Foster forces her mind to forget that she is saving the life of a man that made her mentor go insane. She forces herself to forget that he killed hordes of innocent people in New York. She forces her arms to carry the helpless devil to safety. With a grimace, Jane drags his limp body over a fallen tree trunk, ignoring the biting train in her back and arms. Without the least bit of concern, Jane heaves Loki to the ATV, his torso hanging loosely over the seat. Jane wastes no more time, throwing the ATV into gear, one hand tangled in Loki's tunic to hold him steady, and one hand to steer as she blazes through the forest.

It takes more effort than she'd like to bring him through the back door and into the living room. With a final shove, Jane callously drops him to the couch. She figures a bruised rib or two couldn't do more damage that's already been done. Before throwing a few logs into the fireplace and stoking the coals, Jane hurls a blanket over his body her lips twitching to hold back a snarl.

She's not even sure what to look for in her first aid kit. Her bathroom looks like an amateur burglar tore it apart. Bottles of prescription roll over the white tiles, boxes of gauze and toiletries strewn about. He could be suffering a number of things. The epitome of Jane's knowledge of emergency care was how to properly, and gingerly stick on a band-aid. Jane thinks over his symptoms; violent shaking, blue lips, contorted breathes. She would think it was hypothermia, but he had only been in the forest for about five minutes. Jane knows she can't just take him to an emergency room for a diagnosis. First of all, the closest clinic was about 20 miles from here and second; what would they do when they found out he wasn't human? Not to mention the plethora of cellphones and cameras that took pictures of him during New York. The media did 10 page spreads about him for weeks, meaning his face was about as recognizable as the Iron Man suit.

Back to her more serious thoughts, SHIELD would come for him, then for her. Hospitals are out of the question. Besides the fact, Jane at the back of her mind knows that whatever he's suffering from is not worldly. She's not sure of anything that could wound a man of Loki's stature, much less a god that wields magic (except for Hulk that is).

Jane runs back down the stairs into the living room, finding it already toasty from the fire; a soft golden aura filling the room.

Jane moves to Loki's side, looking down at him with a grimace. Jane's angry that she finds his face so peaceful, that a monster like him could look so beautiful and innocent. She gingerly reaches down, smoothing her palm over his forehead, only to jerk her hand back at the sharp sting in her palm. She hisses and cradles her palm, finding it stained red with a numbing bite.

_Frost giant,_ Jane remembers, noting the light blue hue to his complexion as well. This makes no sense to Jane. Loki, probably second to Frigga only, was one of the most powerful conjurers in Asgard, maybe the universe. Jane knows that this is not his true form, but a façade he created as illusion, and if one of the most powerful beings in the universe can't keep up a simple illusion, something very wrong has happened. Jane puts two fingers to his neck, measuring the weak pulse there. Jane doesn't see much she could do for him, except move him closer to the fire and pile him high with blankets so she does just that.

Jane's not sure what to do next, she just stand stupidly slaw jawed with her arms over her chest, staring at the couch pushed close to the fire place. If he awoke, what dangers waited for her here. There's no way for her to call for help, the landline hadn't worked in months, the nearest neighbor was a few miles away. The only firearms she had are locked in a safe in the garage, not to mention the fact that a bullet would probably do very little against a six foot, four man that went toe-to-toe with Hulk and survived. Jane can feel her heart beat quicken in her chest, thunking deeply in the hollow of her throat. She tries to swallow, but finds her throat completely dry. Jane still has trouble processing that the fucker was still alive. She thinks over all possibilities, and can only come to one conclusion: that someone, somewhere had lied to her.

Thor maybe, maybe the entire troop of Thor's companions, or maybe Loki acted alone. Jane has trouble wrapping her mind around why Loki would fake his death. If he wasn't such an idiot, he could have returned with Thor to Asgard, victorious. But then again, Loki on Svartalfheim would have had no way of knowing whether the plan would be successful or not. He had even admitted on the skiff that he had no idea how to defeat the dark elves. Jane, even though she was in a half-conscious state, was very aware of Loki and Thor's conversation. They were talking in quiet voices first, gently, as confidant to confidant. Then words turned sharp, by Loki's tongue, and Thor threw them back with just as much ferocity.

"_Who put me there?!" _

"_You know damn well who!" _

Jane shivers. It was Frigga they were fighting about and Jane can't help but feel the responsibility for her death weigh on her back like a demon whispering incantations into her ear. _It's your fault, all your fault, if you hadn't touched that damn rock in the cave, wouldn't you stop to think it was put there for a reason!_ Jane feels her eyes brim with a poisonous onslaught of fresh tears. She quickly bats them away, a small hiccupped breath in her burning chest. Did Loki know that Frigga, his only remaining ally, had died for her? She pats her cheeks with a shaky sigh, trying to shake the guilt from her. But it was stuck there, like an inherent stain, something that nothing, not even time could wash away. She had been the reason Frigga had been murdered.

She walks with ghostly silence to the couch, peering over the back as if to check on a sleeping infant. His chest rises in falls in slow motion. Jane reaches to him with two outstretched fingers, brushing his icy skin, and when she found no cold burning sensation there, she pressed the tips to his jugular where Jane can feel his paper thin heartbeat. Jane studies his face with her fingers stilled against his throat. Loki didn't react to her touch, not a twitch, or a flinch of any kind. Jane bites her lip, cupping his jaw as if it were porcelain. His ivory skin had warmed to a cold that wasn't slicing when she touched him.

The fire seemed to be doing the trick at thawing the frozen man. Jane thinks over her plan of attack, perhaps quite literally, if he awoke in a hostile mood. Of course, she'd have to wait for him to wake up first, and she has no idea of how long that could take. Maybe a day, a week? She'd have to get herself some insurance, a pocket knife, a taser (which seemed to be quite effective on Thor), anything she could easily grab and whip/shoot/hurl at Loki if need be. Sure, Jane has guns. If by 'guns' you mean A gun, and a gun that happened to be an antique 1941 Winchester rifle that probably hadn't been shot in this century that she picked up at a garage sale. She figured she'd never actually have to shoot it, all she'd really have to do was wave it at an intruder to scare them off. And Jane can't exactly waltz into a gun shop and buy one, especially when getting caught registering under an alias could lead SHIELD right to her.

Jane goes up to the guest bedroom, opening the door only to find a bare room with only a bed frame and naked twin-sized mattress. So Jane hadn't had time to fully decorate in a year, sue her. Living arrangements would have to be put in order. How long would Loki even stay here? Assuming that he won't kill her the second his eyes open. Jane compiles a list in her head: safety insurance, clothes (he couldn't wear the same outfit for a week now, could he?), bed spread, blankets, the whole nine yards. Food too. If he was anything like Thor she's need to buy at least 20 boxes of pop-tarts, 5 boxes of cereal, 3 roasted chickens, and oh yea, about 12 boxes of coffee. Jane flops backward onto the mattress with a tired sigh, trying to wrap her mind around everything that just happened, just trying to soak it all in.

She knows she's clearly not reacting like she should. In fact she doesn't even know the proper way to react. A mass-murdering, magic-wielding villain, who is supposed to be dead, got dropped off like a helpless baby bird in her back yard with no instruction from Thor, and is now swaddled like a baby (yet looking more like a wet rat) on her couch. Jane just wants to laugh. Not that anything about this is funny, but just the pure irony of the situation.

Jane had waited a year for any sign at all that Thor still gave at least a little bit about her, or her safety or Midgard (as he calls it) for that matter. And does Jane get? For the pain and suffering and heartache? What does Jane Foster get? His psychotic brother.

Though Jane's been out of practice, she's still a clever woman. The astronomical, mathematical, hell even magical possibilities of Loki finding his way here, to this exact spot, exactly where Jane's been hiding, having knowledge that'd she had gone into hiding without use of Heimdall or Thor (assuming they weren't helping him all along) were pretty damn close to zero. Try .003%.

Jane knows that Loki here is no mistake whatsoever.

Jane puts her min to less upsetting matters, trying to soothe her unnerved skin. Jane prattles around her house, trying to shake the weight of the situation from her shoulders. Loki had disrupted an order that she'd had. The rest of the day is spent in her study, surrounded by warm stacks of musty books. She doesn't have the stomach to sit in the living room, sharing the same air and room space as Loki. So when the sky darkens, revealing a clear night sky, Jane pads down the stairs quietly, hoping whatever sleep Loki's in is deep, and throws on her jacket.

The air outside is crisp, refreshing. Inside was starting to get clammy, the heat of her anxiety and fury. The snow crunches satisfyingly under her boots.

Jane Foster walks slowly, with forced poise, a rigid back, powerful stomps to her trudging steps. She walks until the memories flooding back to her ebb. Memories of intruders, a twisting pain in her gut, and the feeling of knowing she was completely alone in the universe. She walks until the pain goes away, until the sadness fades, and an eerie tranquility rises in their stead.

She walks until her boots crunch on charred earth, etched with ancient sigils and symbols. Jane Foster looks up at the sky, facing the darkness she'd been hiding from for a year. She sees the stars, the constellations beaming down at her wildly. She looks as if she can see through the Rainbow Bridge, into Heimdall's eyes, or Thor's, whoever was watching her. And even with all the things she'd wanted to say that had been brewing in her mind for a year, all of the speeches and accusations, all of the heartfelt longings she'd wanted to express, everything she wanted to scream; Jane only mutters one word to the stars.

"Why?"

The stars give no answer. They rarely do.


End file.
